"Yes, Ruth," Aunt Jane continued, ignoring the interruption, "'t is a

romance--a real romance," she repeated, with all the hard lines in her

face softened. "We was engaged over thirty-five year. James went to sea

to make a fortin', so he could give me every luxury. It's all writ out

in a letter I've got upstairs. They's beautiful letters, Ruth, and it's

come to me, as I've been settin' here, that you might make a book out'n

these letters of James's. You write, don't you?"

"Why, yes, Aunty, I write for the papers but I've never done a book."

"Well, you'll never write a book no earlier, and here's all the

material, as you say, jest a-waitin' for you to copy it. I guess there's

over a hundred letters."

"But, Aunty," objected Ruth, struggling with inward emotion, "I couldn't

sign my name to it, you know, unless I had written the letters."

"Why not?"

"Because it wouldn't be honest," she answered, clutching at the straw,

"the person who wrote the letters would be entitled to the credit--and

the money," she added hopefully.

"Why, yes, that's right. Do you hear James? It'll have to be your book,

'The Love Letters of a Sailor,' by James, and dedicated in the front

'to my dearly beloved wife, Jane Ball, as was Jane Hathaway.' It'll be

beautiful, won't it, James?"

"Yes'm, I hev no doubt but what it will."

"Do you remember, James, how you borrered a chisel from the tombstone

man over to the Ridge, and cut our names into endurin' granite?"

"I'd forgot that--how come you to remember it?"

"On account of your havin' lost the chisel and the tombstone man

a-worryin' me about it to this day. I'll take you to the place. There's

climbin' but it won't hurt us none, though we ain't as young as we might

be. You says to me, you says: 'Jane, darlin', as long as them letters

stays cut into the everlastin' rock, just so long I'll love you,' you

says, and they's there still."

"Well, I'm here, too, ain't I?" replied Mr. Ball, seeming to detect a

covert reproach. "I was allers a great hand fer cuttin'."

"There'll have to be a piece writ in the end, Ruth, explainin' the happy

endin' of the romance. If you can't do it justice, James and me can

help--James was allers a master hand at writin'. It'll have to tell how

through the long years he has toiled, hopin' against hope, and for over

thirty years not darin' to write a line to the object of his affections,

not feelin' worthy, as you may say, and how after her waitin' faithfully

at home and turnin' away dozens of lovers what pleaded violent-like,

she finally went travellin' in furrin parts and come upon her old lover

a-keepin' a store in a heathen land, a-strugglin' to retrieve disaster

after disaster at sea, and constantly withstandin' the blandishments of

heathen women as endeavoured to wean him from his faith, and how, though

very humble and scarcely darin to speak, he learned that she was willin'

and they come a sailin' home together and lived happily ever afterward.

Ain't that as it was, James?"




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